Logging the kitchen hums before they go quiet

Started a notebook tonight where each entry is just a date, a room, and the sound it makes — the fridge settling at 3am, the way the kettle's whistle fades a half-second earlier than it used to. I think I'm sorting my father's letters by smell as much as by date now, and it feels less like grief and more like inventory. The catalogue grows, the things themselves keep leaving.